Swallow Hunting - vanish into fiction

Fuck.

Hae-jun cursed silently in his mind, unsure how many times. He wanted to shout at the top of his lungs, but he couldn’t even make a sound now. Like a sewer rat, he hid behind the wall, only watching the outside.

Cold sweat ran down his body. Even though it was autumn and the wind was chilly, his tense muscles didn’t feel the cold. His palms pressed against the wall were slick with sweat, and his lips and mouth felt parched.

If he got caught, he was screwed. And that would be the lucky outcome. The worst case was being dragged somewhere and buried alive. He could already see it in his mind: holding a shovel in his hands, digging the earth, and being forced into the grave while some unknown faces laughed, saying, “That’s your grave.”

He swallowed hard and slowly moved his head away. From a distance, the large men were scanning around and then turned toward him as if they had noticed. Hae-jun quickly hid behind the wall.

This place wasn’t safe either.

But where the hell was truly safe? He wondered if he should flee overseas until things calmed down, but reality struck. He didn’t even have the money to buy a ticket, let alone a passport.

Why had this happened? Hae-jun looked down at his crotch in frustration. Yeah. The culprit was that bastard. That thing attached to his body, which sometimes had a will of its own, rising, swelling, dying as it pleased—that piece of flesh he could never cut off—was the cause of all this.

Hae-jun was just an ordinary host. He sold drinks, talked smoothly, and even sold his body when necessary. A so-called “host,” known in foreign terms as well.

With little education and nothing but a small dick and a smooth face, this job had become his calling. By smiling innocently in front of women, calling them “noona,” acting cute, he received affection, love, and money.

His sexual desire was an extra bonus. Of course, being paid meant he always gave his best at night. He licked, bit, and sucked diligently, prioritizing customer satisfaction with excellent professionalism.

Then one day, she appeared. She was a refined and beautiful woman, too elegant to appear in such a shabby place. She seemed wealthy. Hae-jun, lucky to be called by her, fawned over her like a stray cat discovering a new master.

When she held a cigarette, he stuck close and presented a secondhand Zippo lighter he had bought at a high price. If she had a drink, he offered a snack. If she wanted him to sing, he sang. If she wanted him to dance, he danced. He did everything he could. He hoped she, Han Young-hwa, would take a liking to him, get him a small studio apartment, and slip him some money as if feeding him.

And the ultimate test approached. If the night went well, he would stay by her side. If not, he would be discarded.

Hae-jun thoroughly washed his hairless, pale cock, exercised his tongue, stretched his fingers, and did stretching exercises for his waist, hips, thighs, and core to ensure they could perform perfectly. He hadn’t masturbated for days in preparation.

Satisfied with the perfection reflected in the mirror, he confidently headed to the hotel. Han Young-hwa was already elegantly seated on the sofa in nothing but a silk robe, showing off her experience as an older woman.

She had a cigarette in her mouth and only nodded. Having spent her life reading people’s intentions, a single nod was enough for her to communicate what she wanted. Hae-jun gladly began undoing his shirt buttons, performing a strip show. He removed his underwear completely and crawled to her feet, kissing the top of her foot.

He made it to the bed safely. The atmosphere heated up, and his cock, long restrained, stiffened. He was ready to unleash all the skills he had learned in his life tonight.

Ding dong.

The bell rang. Hae-jun pretended not to hear it so as not to ruin the mood. But Han Young-hwa did not. She pushed Hae-jun’s shoulder to sit up.

Ding dong.

The bell rang again.

‘Shall I go?’

Han Young-hwa’s face was pale as if she were a professional actor about to scream at the climax of a horror film. She hastily threw on her robe and got off the bed.

Sensing that things were going badly, Hae-jun quickly got his legs into his black, subtly pearlescent underwear—his most expensive pair.

‘Young-hwa.’

A low voice came from outside. It sent chills down his spine, not unlike the Grim Reaper’s. Hae-jun flinched.

‘Do you want to open it, or should I?’

It wasn’t anger. But from experience, someone maintaining that emotional state while threatening was the most terrifying and dangerous kind of human. Hae-jun’s face paled in a way that mirrored Han Young-hwa’s.